


Hawke, Wolf

by wargoddess



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 15:03:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10310885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: The Wolves of Kirkwall suffer as their pack leader Meredith grows increasingly corrupt. Only an omega can save it, and only an alpha like Cullen can capture one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanukiham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanukiham/gifts).



> Wargoddess attempts werewolf A/B/O fic, basically. I think it's probably going to show that I don't Get abo stuff; I basically just did this to see if I could. The worldbuilding is halfassed and not nearly as cracky as it ought to be, but in my defense, I'm not at my best right now. Also, the dubcon in it is an attempt to fulfill a challenge posed by tanukiham. Vaguely influenced by Teen Wolf fanfic, Twilight fanfic, and a bunch of 99-cent books on Amazon.

The rumor blows through Kirkwall swift as sea-winds: there is an omega in Darktown. Healthy. Hidden. Unbound and for the claiming. It seems impossible -- but then Kirkwall is a city of impossibilities, and Cullen has grown painfully used to accepting truths which should be lies and lies which make the truth seem laughable.

He hears the news on the day when he is forced to tear out Beta-Corporal Karras' throat. This has been coming for some time. Karras has tested Cullen at nearly every turn, showing throat before him and sniping behind his back, hinting in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that Cullen is too subservient to be a proper alpha -- either to get Cullen to challenge Meredith and die in the doing, or to trigger Meredith's aggression to the same end. It's clear, however, that the fool has not counted on Cullen -- _Cullen_ , of all Wolves of the Maker, Meredith's Fang himself -- killing him over the abuse of a Witch. Keeping Witches in line has always been the Wolves' ancient duty amid the beasts of Thedas: where the Gryphons of Weisshaupt stand against darkspawn, and the Wyverns of Orlais form Thedas' main defense against the Dragons of Par Vollen -- they along with the wild Witches in Tevinter, but no Wolf likes admitting that -- so it is Wolves' duty to keep Witches and evil magic in line. Cullen has never shirked this duty.

But Cullen also follows the Maker's laws of pack and protection. Humans, and those Witches who submit to Wolven oversight, are meant to be safe within Wolf lands. Cullen has no love of the creatures, but he likes corruption even less. For failing to understand this, Karras now lies dead at Cullen's feet.

Cullen stands in wolf-form for a few moments after Karras' death, letting the rage of the battle subside, trying to force his blood to cool. It goes slowly, and poorly. A few of the betas slink forward, bellies low to the ground, to lap at Cullen's muzzle and clean away Karras' blood. (Which does not, _does not_ , taste good. He tells himself this again and again.) He stands still to permit their ministrations, because they're trying to help... but it takes everything he has not to tear out their throats, too.

It isn't their fault. They are only betas, and he needs an omega. Kirkwall has had no omegas for many, many years.

When at last Cullen is able to function -- not calm, nowhere near, but at least not dangerous anymore -- he shifts back to man-shape. Every other Wolf in the courtyard does the same in deference to his status, and for a moment his lips draw back. Sycophants, every one of them, puling cowards too bloody weak to bear the responsibilities of --

No... no. He takes a deep breath, forces himself to stop snarling, and prays to the Maker and His Mate for strength.

Then he goes to see Meredith.

She's in wolf-form when he enters her office, facing the door, stock-still and enormous -- nearly twice his wolfly size, stark white and with fangs like scythes. He stops short at the sight of her red, red eyes, and bares his teeth defensively before he can manage to tamp down the instinct. All the calm that the betas managed to instill in him is gone... but he does not, thank the Maker, shift. She would not tolerate that.

Then, with an effort that feels like wading through molasses, Cullen kneels, bowing his head to bare the back of his neck.

Meredith does not move for any of the ten long breaths during which Cullen waits on her judgment. He knows she might choose to kill him, for she is old and she is powerful, and even if he kneels to her, she knows that he is a rival for her power. Worse, her kills and the pack's rage and savagery weigh upon her mind, driving her closer to madness -- to rabidity -- by the day. One day, Cullen knows, she _will_ kill him -- or he her, though the latter is unlikely given her strength. Without an omega, it is inevitable; one way or another, the pack will lose one of its leaders, and be badly weakened in the doing. Then one of the other packs of the Free Marches -- perhaps Starkhaven, whose alpha Sebastian _has_ an omega, the lovely and deadly Isabela, to strengthen him and make him bold -- will likely conquer their territory.

Perhaps Meredith remembers this, or perhaps she simply doesn't feel like killing him today. After a long, pent moment, she finally shifts back to woman-form. Her armor gleams as she settles into her throne-like chair, and her eyes glitter a deep garnet red as she beckons him back to his feet.

"I had some concern," she drawls, as if the desire to kill Cullen does not still run hot in her blood.

Cullen shifts to attention-stance before her, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on a point over her shoulder. "My apologies," he says. It comes out as a growl an octave deeper than his usual voice; he winces, then takes another breath. "Karras could not be permitted to -- "

She waves a hand dismissively. "I agree, and a fool's death is of no matter. We have more important concerns."

"Oh?" Karras, of no matter. A pack member's death, and a matter of discipline that Cullen has wrestled with for weeks, unimportant. Cullen cannot be offended by her lack of concern; he's seen it too often before. She is a poor pack leader... but unless he's willing to kill her and take over as he should, he has no moral high ground to stand upon.

She smiles thinly, then slides a small square of paper across the desk. On it is the charcoal sketch of a young man's face. Human, or a beast in man-form; impossible to tell without scent or magical aura in support. Dark hair, cut boyishly short; strong jaw that hints at belligerence; eyes of some lighter hue. Handsome. Stubborn-looking.

"He has been seen several times in Darktown," Meredith says. "Likely a Fereldan refugee. They are mostly human down there in the sewers -- wretched creatures too sick or weak or lazy to work their way out of poverty -- but the witness was a Wolf whose nose, at least, may be trusted."

Cullen stares at the sketch, only slowly realizing what she's saying. "An omega _refugee_?" It could not be. Omegas were too rare, and too sorely needed. Ferelden was full of Wolves; surely one of them would have noticed this boy and captured him and given him over to the royal family or some other important alpha! There are always rumors of unclaimed omegas, but to actually _find_ one...

"It must be the Maker's will," Cullen murmurs, amazed.

"Indeed. You are to take any pack members necessary into Darktown and flush him out, Cullen. For his own safety, he cannot remain unclaimed. We will give him the pack he needs." She pauses, meaningfully. " _I_ will give him this. Is that understood?"

The unspoken lingers between them: _Take him yourself and I will kill you._ She doesn't need to say it, because Cullen knows it. Packs can have more than one alpha, but not more than one leader. And while Cullen might have begun to suspect that he might be better at the task... he is not yet ready to render this decision in tooth and claw.

"What benefits the leader, benefits the pack," Cullen says, and means it.

She tilts her head in approval. Cullen turns at once to go and do her will.

#

Hunting an omega, Cullen knows by instinct and legend, is a tricksy sort of thing.

They have powers beyond those of beasts. Born human or elvhen, always, and yet the potential exists within them to _become other_. When they mate with an alpha of the Dragon clans, they take the Dragon unto themselves. When a Wyvern takes them, they are made Wyvern. In addition, they are gifted with the ability to quell shapeshifting, and to negate the churning, violent spiritual residue that can corrupt a beast's mind. A Wolf who is near to losing himself, drowning in bloodlust and rage, can be coaxed back to sanity by an omega -- provided the Wolf has not crossed the point of no return and become feral. The alpha who has an omega is better; the pack that has an omega is stronger. But first, the omega must be made to submit.

Cullen brings a full platoon of twenty wolves to Darktown. It is not the method he would prefer; when he hunts, he prefers patient stalking, analyzing his prey for the best angle of attack, then striking with merciful efficiency. Meredith, however, has said what she wants: the omega flushed out, chased until he is exhausted and captured, dragged to her in chains, beaten if he tries to flee. How she means to win the young man after such cruelty, Cullen cannot fathom... but that will be her problem, not his.

(He ignores the whisper of a thought: _An omega should not be mistreated so. She disrespects tradition, forgets sense, in her madness_.)

Cullen's Wolves spread through Darktown, some in beast-form and some not, sniffing about and asking questions. The questioning is worse than unproductive; Cullen senses immediately that most of the people of Darktown have no love for Wolves. "Just like the bloody city guard, but with teeth," one old man mutters as Cullen passes. Cullen lets it slide, however. No wall is without cracks. And when he mentions to the people he questions that there might be a reward for information... He sees their eyes dart. Scents their excitement. He knows it will be only a matter of time.

Three hours into the search, Cullen stands on the steps above a reeking culvert -- the Darktown residents' latrine, he gathers, the stench of which has rendered him all but scent-blind. It is damnably clever of the omega to hide in Darktown. Not only are its predominantly-human and -elvhen inhabitants oblivious to the distinctive omega scent that a beast would notice, but the reek is as effective as any obscuration spell. Cullen has stepped around three puddles of vomit just to get to this "fresh" air, and it feels as if he will never be free of the stench.

But then a small hand tugs on his shirt. Resisting the urge to snarl or draw his sword, Cullen nevertheless turns sharply, and a small elf boy draws back, eyes wide. "If you please, serrah," he says.

The child is acting too much like prey. Wolves do not eat thinking creatures, but too great a weight of bloodlust pulls an alpha farther and farther from the Wolf he should be, and Cullen has carried too much for too long. Knowing that his eyes have begun to glow with red even in his human shape, Cullen turns away. "What is it?"

He hears the boy swallow loudly. "N-news, serrah Wolf. Something you're looking for."

Cullen says nothing. If the boy doesn't understand the danger he's in if he fails to actually provide useful information, then he doesn't deserve to live.

(No. Wolves do not eat thinking creatures.)

(Karras' blood was bitter, without savor. A child, though, would taste sweeter...)

( _No._ )

He hears the boy gulp. "Better to show you, ser. He's usually on the move, this time of day."

"'He?'"

"The one you want. From the sketch." The boy grows bolder. "If there's money in it?"

"If your news is sound." And then he listens closely. Any hint of falsehood...

"It's three of 'em altogether," the boy reports dutifully, slipping back into Darktown brogue as he relaxes. "The one you want, and a sister, and an older sister. The older's human. Not a b-beast, I mean -- I don't think, anyway. Tough, though. She carries double knives and knows the use of them. The younger sister seems human, but..."

"But?"

The boy swallows hard. "I just... she carries a stave. It don't prove nothing, but..."

A wild Witch. Cullen's lips draw back from his teeth. That explains much, then. A Witch can cast obscurations, and a wild one might even resort to unholy magics to manipulate beasts' minds. "Show me where they live."

"Don't know that. They don't sleep here, see. But it's lots of secret ways into Darktown, yeah? Especially from up high, if you know what I mean."

Cullen frowns. "Why do you say that?"

The boy shrugs. "Just... their weapons are good quality. Their armor's plain, but nice. Clean. They don't stink."

And that alone is meaningful, in this foul place. Fierce Maker and His Beloved; the omega is from _Hightown_. But that cannot be! Anyone with power wouldn't simply hide an omega. Noble families with an omega scion would trade him for influence and prestige. Criminal organizations would sell him to the highest bidder. This might very well be happening, quietly, among groups that bear Meredith no love. But what, then, does it mean that the omega is seen in Darktown?

The hunt has just become a hundred times more complicated. Cullen turns to the boy and puts a hand on the hilt of his sword. "Show me."

The child leads Cullen down steps and across dry culverts and along bridges, until presently they stop on a shadowed old platform stacked high with mouldering crates. Cullen stays braced for an ambush the whole way, but he notes the boy making covert warn-off signals to any potential troublemakers. Alpha Wolves are dangerous enough when they aren't hovering on the edge of ferality. Finally the boy directs Cullen to hunker down in the shadow of two crates, so he does so.

And when only a few moments later he sees the young man from the sketch stroll out of an alleyway, he fumbles blindly for his waist-pouch and offers the elf boy a handful of coins as both a reward and a go-away. It's too much money; he feels the gold pieces against his palms, and hears the boy gasp as he pulls out his shirt-tail to catch it all. Cullen doesn't care, though. Every other part of his attention is riveted on the young man.

His prey: Older-looking than the sketch would have him. Blacker-haired, bluer-eyed. Body of a warrior, with great broad shoulders and a deep chest and strong thighs. There is a greatsword on his back that has seen a good deal of use. He wears plain leather armor which shows off his thick-muscled arms. When he walks, he bounces on the balls of his feet, like a man who knows the dance of battle.

He isn't at all what Cullen expects an omega to look like. The ones he's glimpsed or heard of -- Queen Anora, that elvhen assassin claimed by the Hero of Ferelden, Isabela -- have been softer creatures, at least outwardly. This man is not soft. This man is beautiful. And such strength, added to their pack... Cullen covets it at once. Hungers to spar with him, measuring strength against strength.

(That's all he wants, he tells himself. Just sparring. Just acquaintanceship.)

As the elf boy said, there's a young woman with the omega, as demure and soft as he is hard -- but there's a similarity to the both of them that is difficult to pin down. Not just siblings, Cullen intuits, but twins. And yes, she carries a stave; with the eye of an experienced Wolf, Cullen knows the whiff of magic that swirls around it. They pass below Cullen, oblivious to the danger, laughing with one another.

Strange to see the omega so free, Cullen muses. All Kirkwall's fate stands balanced upon him... and yet he turns and pokes at his sister, teasing her, dodging when she swats back. Almost as if he is an ordinary man, and not an omega.

This thought fills Cullen with doubt. What if Meredith's informant was wrong? He must be certain.

So he paces them, moving in the shadows, staying just out of a Witch's range and relying on the stench of Darktown to conceal his own scent. Along the way he catches the eye of one of his betas, Agatha, and hand-signals for her to take the troop back to base. Their quarry is heading out of Darktown, and there's no way a large group of Wolves can remain concealed on the streets of Lowtown. Agatha cranes her neck, spies the boy, and her eyes widen -- but she nods, and the Wolves of the Gallows follow her away.

Understandably, the hunt grows difficult thereafter. Despite Cullen's best efforts, the wild Witch keeps reacting as if she thinks she's being followed -- turning about, frowning, and on one occasion Cullen senses the questing magics of a spell. It is nothing for him to shunt the spell aside, but her sensitivity is troubling. She's more paranoid than the average wild Witch who fears capture by Wolves. It grows worse when they get outside the city, plainly headed for one of the roads down the Wounded Coast. Cullen has tried to stay downwind of them, but now and again the young man stops to look around, frowning a little. Perhaps it isn't scent that he's catching; maybe he's also just very sensitive to those who would hunt him, have him. He is meant for that, after all; his place is at the heart of some beast pack or another, being kept and regularly mounted by a strong alpha, thereafter to serve as the living symbol of his pack's resilience and stability. Does he resist this necessity?

Meredith will tolerate no resistance. She cannot; it isn't in her nature, and she may even be too far gone with the corruption for an omega to cleanse. What happens then, if the omega fights back and she loses control?

Cullen wrenches his thoughts away from this frightening possibility. She would not harm him. He is an _omega_. She couldn't.

Maker. She could, but...

He sets his jaw, and concentrates again on his tracking.

Eventually, the pair reaches a spot on the beach that they have clearly used before -- as evidenced by how the young man pushes aside a slab of slate and fishes wine bottles and a netted cheese wheel from the hole underneath. Cullen has positioned himself on a ledge above their beach, behind a boulder and a clump of scrubby weeds. Below, they undress, casually comfortable with one another's nudity, and run into the surf to swim.

And it is... Cullen shudders as he watches them. What is he feeling? Not lust, though the omega is even more comely unclothed, clean-lined and strong and so smooth of skin. What Cullen feels is something more profound than lust. The omega swims out from the shore with long, powerful strokes, then comes barreling back through the waves like a child, splashing so much that his sister complains. That sets off a water-fight between the two, he waving armfuls at her and she occasionally retaliating with a magic-generated snowball amid the water, which makes the omega yelp with the sudden cold. Then he grabs her and drags her under, and she squeals laughter and holds him down as soon as they surface, until he finally breaks free and chases her out of the water, and then they run around the beach like fools...

It is _wonder_ that he feels, Cullen realizes. Wonder, for the first time since the collected madness within him began to encroach on his willpower. Wonder -- and a growing conviction that it would be the greatest of sins before the Maker to destroy something so beautiful as this omega's joyful soul.

Then the worst occurs. Somewhere in their playing the roles have reversed, and the girl has begun chasing the omega instead. He's faster, but she tries hard -- so hard that she fails to notice a bit of upturned stone jutting from the sand, and steps on it full-force. She cries out and goes down. Cullen feels the cessation of magical pressure against his senses as the passive spell winks out... And at last, Cullen catches the omega's scent.

Cullen is out of concealment in an instant, on his feet, staring down at them and no longer even trying to conceal the red, red, red of his eyes. The omega has knelt to examine sister in concern as she groans and clutches her bloodied foot... but all at once he stiffens. Yes, the wind has shifted again, or perhaps it is instinct which warns him of an unmated alpha's proximity. For whatever reason, he looks up right at Cullen.

His eyes widen, and then he scrambles to his feet, already pivoting toward the greatsword propped against a rock perhaps ten feet away -- but already Cullen is on the ground too, having moved with the speed of his Wolf shape even in manflesh. His Wolf _demands_ this. The omega stops short, cursing softly, at finding Cullen in between himself and his sword. He is tensed to flee or fight, but able to do neither; it's clear he won't leave his injured sister.

Injured.

The scent of him is so rich, heady, musky. Healthy. He smells like... oh Maker, he smells like sex. It is no longer possible for Cullen to deny, amid the allure of that scent, that he _wants_ this man. It isn't just the scent, though; has he not found the omega beautiful and admirable? He _wants_ , so powerfully that he aches with it, and the thought rings through him that he could _have_ the omega right here, on the soft sand. The omega is fresh from the water. Push him onto his face and tongue his nether entrance until he opens. Make him curse again, with pleasure this time. Then hold him down to teach him that there can be pleasure in submission -- He takes a step closer, his fingers itching to form claws, his fangs beginning to lengthen --

 _Injured_. Injury. No. That would be. Cullen swallows, then angles his head for a breath that is free of the omega's scent. His head clears, a little. _An injury_. It would be an injury to take him so. An omega, _this_ omega, is an asset to be wooed, not an enemy to be broken --

_But Meredith wants to break him._

Cullen freezes in indecision and cold realization and anguish. Will he let Meredith do so? He must; he has acknowledged her as the pack's alpha. _His_ alpha. But --

Focus.

"Is she. Is. She." Deep breath, which is bad because it gives him a lungful of omega and he _aches_ with the need to capture and claim. But no. "Injured."

"What?" Some of the pent fear in the omega's posture dissipates, when Cullen does not attack.

"Your sister. Is she... Is she injured? M-may I assist?"

The omega blinks. Slowly, when it becomes clear that Cullen will not come at him, he backs up and crouches beside her again. She grimaces as he takes hold of her foot; her hands are streaked with blood. "I can heal it," she says. Then she eyes Cullen, warily. As a Wolf, Cullen can suppress her magic if he wishes. He _should_ do it; she is wild. And he should do it because, injured and powerless, she'll be less able to stop him from taking her brother. He can tear her throat out if she tries. But that, too, would inflict an _injury_ upon the omega, and... no.

Cullen releases the hilt of his sword, which he hadn't even realized he was grasping. "Then heal it," he says to the Witch.

Her power is precise and controlled -- as was to be expected from a woman who has kept an omega brother concealed for years. The omega holds the foot still through the magic, with no apparent sign of fear; he is used to her power. And perhaps he is aiding it? It's said omegas can even enhance Witches' strength, though they cannot mate with that kind in any permanent way, and they do not become Witches themselves if they do.

When it's done, the omega scrubs the shed blood off her foot with some sand, then helps her up. And then they stand facing Cullen, tense, still nude, unarmed. The girl has magic but with or without her staff she's no match for Cullen. The omega is strong and can keep Cullen in man-shape, but even in this form Cullen is armed and in full armor, and the omega is naked. So they watch him, awaiting his judgment in fear.

There should not be fear in the omega's eyes. That isn't how it's supposed to go. Cullen shakes his head in instinctive frustration, as the Wolf paces restlessly within him. "Your names?"

The girl opens her mouth. "Haven't given us yours, have you?" the omega snaps. The girl flushes and subsides as well.

Such spirit. His Wolf stops pacing, startled and entranced; Cullen cannot help smiling. "My name is Cullen."

The young man shifts from foot to foot, robbed of a reason to be belligerent. "Right. Well. Carver, then."

The girl licks her lips, following the omega's lead. Interesting. "Bethany."

No family name. Cullen licks his lips, schooling himself to patience and slowness. His own scent is surely working on the omega, letting him know that Cullen is what he needs -- strong and healthy and interested and unmated. Cullen himself must fill in the rest, proving to the omega that he can be trusted. He nods and steps aside, clearing the way to the omega's sword, and their clothing.

They both edge around him warily as he pivots to watch. The girl grabs her staff first and jerks her head at the omega -- at _Carver_ , his name is _Carver_ , Cullen shivers just a little over the feel of the syllables in his mind. The omega doesn't protest, just grabs his clothes and dresses quickly while the girl remains naked, clearly on guard. Then when he's got boots on, Carver takes up the sword and holds it ready, though he rests the sword-tip on the ground. The girl frowns at this, but then sets down her staff so she can dress.

It is a peace offering, Cullen guesses. And a chance; Carver is sizing him up, thoughtful as his fear recedes. Cullen has only these few moments to make an impression. He swallows hard and ventures, "You are Ferelden." He can hear the accent. And Meredith's source said they were refugees.

Carver shrugs. "You, too. Come here 'cause of the Blight?"

Cullen shakes his head, trying not to grimace. "A Witch revolt. My former pack leader Greagoir decided to send me here to mentor under Alpha Meredith, so that I might... recover... and gain experience enough to eventually lead, myself."

Carver looks him up and down. Cullen feels this as a caress, and the hard stirring in his groin is almost painful. "You look ready enough to lead now," he says.

Is that a compliment, an innuendo, or neither? "I have worked hard, these seven years."

"Hnh. Yeah." Carver considers him, then lifts his chin. "Not as grabby as the alphs back home. Most of 'em don't bother trying to talk before they come slavering at me."

"That is inappropriate," Cullen says. "We alphas are beasts, certainly, but men too. To forget either way is abomination. And you are of great potential value to any pack; you are to be..." He considers his words carefully, sensing at once that Carver might react poorly to _courted_ , no matter how true that word might be. "...respected."

Carver snorts, though it is a good sign; he's relaxed enough to find Cullen amusing rather than threatening. "Hear that, Beth? This one wants to _respect_ me. But will he still want that in the morning, I wonder?"

Bethany, who is lacing her bodice -- an act that looks as though it might take some time, given her endowments -- casts a quick, worried look at Carver, then a keener gaze at Cullen. She has not relaxed, unlike her twin. "I've heard about this one, Carv. He said he works for Meredith? Well, Athenril said Meredith's killed every other alpha in the territory for decades. This one's still alive only because he serves her."

"That is not so," Cullen begins, but then he falters as belatedly, horribly, the girl's words sink in. It _is_ odd that Kirkwall Territory has so few alphas, is it not? That is the reason for the dearth of omegas, he has always suspected. They can appear at random, but most commonly they are born of the same lineages that give forth alphas, which allows alphas to trade siblings for the sake of alliance and sometimes breeding. If Kirkwall lacks such lineages, then it is all the more important that Meredith gain this omega. She might be past bearing, but Cullen is still young enough to breed and will do his duty with some beta of the pack if Meredith takes the animus from him --

 _If she does_ , whispers this tender new doubt, doing its duty and birthing a whole litter of additional ones at once.

For if Meredith has so disregarded tradition as to slay alphas without cause, risking the whole territory's future... What will happen when she no longer needs Cullen to bolster her unstable strength?

The omega is watching him with those lovely, fierce blue eyes, narrowed now in understanding. His sister straightens, dressed at last; they exchange a look. "Sounds like you've got a thing or two to think about," Carver says.

Cullen stares at him, struck dumb with horror, as Carver flips his sword to his back holster, and the two of them turn to go. Then it occurs to him that he cannot allow this; to obey Meredith, he must capture Carver. Kill the Witch if he must, then subdue Carver by any means at his disposal and bring him to Meredith for bonding. That is what the pack needs.

But -- It is wrong. It would be _wrong_ to --

Instinct propels Cullen. He takes a step after them, _makes_ himself stop despite his whole body's demand to run, chase, seize, and instead blurts, "Wait! Please, I -- " What can he say? Reason deserts him. "I would treasure you!"

They stop. The omega turns back, his expression a blend of surprised and bemused and skeptical and -- perhaps? -- intrigued. His sister notices it too, and she doesn't like that he's intrigued. She catches Carver's arm and pulls, trying to get him to turn away. He follows, finally, but it's reluctant. He walks backward for a few steps, staring; there is a need in this stare that makes Cullen's heart clench. Still, he backs up another step...

And then he pulls away from the Witch, coming back to Cullen. Cullen inhales, reaching up, his hands flexing, needing to touch and yet not daring. True submission is offered, not demanded, and what Cullen wants more than anything in this sudden, aching, pent moment is to touch him, coax him, win him over --

Carver leans close. Cullen's breath quickens. Carver's voice is soft. "Come find me, then, after you've done your thinking, yeah? Can't think with your head all sodded up, though." He lifts a hand, and his fingers dance across Cullen's lips. Cullen opens his mouth, inhaling, aching to taste, and Carver smiles.

Then it is _wrenched_ out of Cullen: the hate, the pain, the rage of every battle he's ever fought, the fear and helplessness of Kinloch -- and every ounce of the same that he has absorbed from members of the pack, as is his alpha duty. He chokes and tastes again Karras' blood, bitter and foul yet _sweet_ , oh Maker he had not wanted to admit that he'd enjoyed that kill, enjoyed _every_ kill, more and more until the craving for murder made his mouth raw and his humanity shudder, an addiction ready to run rampant and drown itself in more and more of that sweet sweet blood until someone brought him down. Too much of it, roiling in him for too long, beginning to fester because Meredith would not draw it out of him and because the pack has no omega. But _now it is all gone_.

Cullen cries out, sinking to his knees in the sand at the omega's feet as he is rendered down to the most fundamental elements of his being. And as he kneels there, helpless, lost within the song of his own blood -- and _only_ his own, no one else's, Maker how long has it been since he was only himself? -- the omega's fingers finally and reluctantly pull away from Cullen's lips.

"Maker," he hears Carver murmur. "Your eyes are sodding _gorgeous_ without all that shite in them."

And then he is gone. Cullen collapses, lying on the sand in a stupor until the tide comes in.

#

He cannot go back to the Gallows. Not without the omega, and not with evidence that he _met_ the omega staring back at him from any looking glass, with eyes that are hazel rather than vermillion. Meredith will know his disloyalty the instant she sees him. Her corruption has advanced too far; when she comes at him, she will fight with the strength of rabid madness. He has a chance of killing her, but it is slim. And he cannot die now, and leave lovely Carver to her tender mercies.

Cullen spends the night on the beach after he recovers from the drawing of his madness. He watches waves come in under the lowering moon, and savors the clean, smooth feel that his own thoughts have without the encrustation of old blood and fear-sweat and rage-bile. For the first time in months he can be ashamed of his lack of control before the pack betas, who by now probably fear Cullen as much as Meredith. He can despise himself for seeing the elf boy in Darktown as prey -- but commend himself, too, for not killing the child. The cleansing has made him again what an alpha should be: balanced upon a sword's edge, both monster and man, executioner and judge, predator and guardian.

And now Cullen can see, clearly, everything that he chose not to see, about Meredith. This clarity will not last without an omega -- without Carver -- but for now, he owns it.

And he chooses.

_Come find me, then._

Yes. Cullen will.

#

That night, Cullen waits near a dock in Lowtown. Not long after sunset, when the streets grow quieter and sinister in their shadows, he sees a lanky figure in stained, patched workman's clothes slump up the steps from an alley down near the trash-strewn water. The whiff of beta -- older, ill, scent reeking of anger and anxiety ketones -- comes to Cullen, and is familiar. And yet something is missing. The ketones are old, mostly embedded in the man's unwashed clothing; the more recent overlays of his scent are healthier and free of animus. Someone has drawn it from him.

Cullen steps forward as the man reaches the top of the steps. "Samson."

Samson, once a Wolf of the Kirkwall pack, once Cullen's den-mate, tenses at once -- but his eyes do not flare yellow in his fear. Yes; this is familiar work. Then he relaxes as he recognizes Cullen.

"You're wanting the omega, then, right," Samson says, as if they last spoke moments before and not years. He grins, lopsidedly. One of his canines is missing -- probably taken by Meredith to mark Samson as an exile. "Figured it wouldn't be long before she sent you forth, if she ain't too rabid to give orders. Always were a better hunter than her, and way better a charmer. Going to need it with that one -- " And then Samson stops, and squints at Cullen. His eyes widen. "Maker. You've had him, then."

Cullen shudders at the inadvertent thought of _having_ the omega. "I have encountered him, yes, though he... I was... incapacitated. I know that he is Ferelden. And not a Darktowner."

"Not a Darktowner," Samson confirms. "Not anymore, anyway, if he and his kin ever were. They had ties, see, and they hustled, and now they got dosh. You know anybody can hide anything in this town if they know the right people or grease the right palms, or both."

Cullen nods slowly. "But I cannot simply go a-knocking on every Hightowner door." He _can_ , rather, scenting about for the elusive, maddening scent of Carver, but that is inefficient, and likely to take too long. Meredith will have noted Cullen's absence by now. She will have the betas out searching for him.

"Ah. Then you're needing a whole name, I figure." Samson eyes him, thoughtful. Cullen knows this is it. He has no status anymore beyond the alpha nature he was born with. He is now packless, and Carver has cleansed Samson's madness already, and Cullen has hardly any coin left to offer. He can try to force Samson to give him the name, but Samson may fight back hard enough to make Cullen kill him. He was a brave and tenacious warrior, once.

A leader must inspire, Cullen has always understood. Must give others a reason to follow.

"Meredith is mad," he says, very softly. "The pack has suffered for that. I have been... reluctant to see it. You have suffered for my blindness, as well."

Ah; Samson shrugs a little, but Cullen is not fooled; the words have struck a chord. "Question is," Samson says, setting his jaw, "what'll you do about it now? Say you find the omega and take him. She kills you and takes him back. He don't deserve that."

And Carver has won this man's loyalty without even being fixed into Wolfness. Cullen shakes his head in admiration, and knows himself to be half in love already. "I will do what I must," Cullen says. "I cannot fight her and hope to win, not now. If I cannot win sufficient betas to support my bid for pack leadership, I'll flee the territory with Carver until I'm stronger. As soon as I can, I'll return to challenge her."

Samson's eyebrows rise. "Thought you alphas didn't back down from a fight?"

"When we are full of a pack's hatred and rage, no. We will fight even when it is foolish, like any rabid beast. But my thoughts have been cleansed of pride, among other things, and that lends a certain... humility." Cullen shrugs with a nonchalance that he does not feel. "If the pack will not fight for its own future, I'll fight alone... but not foolishly. As you say: he deserves better."

Samson purses his lips, thoughtful, but then he nods once. "Hawke."

"H -- " Cullen blinks. He knows this name. Marian Hawke, scion of an old noble family of Kirkwall. But no one has ever mentioned her having siblings. "Ah."

Samson shrugs again, then turns away. "Go and fetch your bloke, then."

Cullen puts a hand on his shoulder, gripping firmly. "Maker willing, someday I will have a pack to offer you a place in, again. You would be an asset."

Samson looks away, perhaps so Cullen won't see how these words affect him. "Maker willing indeed."

#

The truth hides in the shadows of wealthy mansions, carried on quiet dwarven feet to where Cullen lurks in Wolf shape. He is stalking the Amell residence, and it is important that he not be seen, for there are many city guards patrolling the streets who would report him to Meredith. Most of those are human, so unlikely to spot a quiet, still Wolf in the shadows. This dwarf, however, spots him unerringly with eyes trained to the dark of underground.

"Messere Alpha-Captain." The dwarf swallows at the sight of Cullen's eyes reflecting light from within the shadows. He smells nervous, but continues, "You are invited to call upon the mistress of the house, if you would prefer a fire and tea to the night cold and the stench of alley piss." The dwarf grimaces. "She made me say that; sorry."

Interesting. Cullen rises from his hiding place and moves forward, shifting between one patch of light and another. The dwarf flinches at this. No shifters among the children of stone; no magic at all. They are never easy with beastfolk because of it. "Thank you," Cullen says, aware that he is looming over the dwarf. Some things cannot be helped. "I believe I shall accept her unusually frank invitation."

At this, however, the dwarf relaxes and chuckles. "Not unusual for her, serrah! Please." He bows the way, and Cullen precedes him to the house.

Inside, though he is braced for it, the strong scent of Carver makes his skin prickle all over. This is Carver's home, yes, though he's nowhere in sight. The manor is both warmer and more comfortable-seeming than Cullen expected. And the woman who rises from a chair by the fire is immediately more dangerous, far and apart from the armor and weaponry that she wears at this late hour, than she initially seems. This is because every inch of Cullen rings with recognition and and shock and an instant, aggressive tension that he has only ever felt a few times in his life.

 _Alpha_. Lady Amell, Marian Hawke, is also an alpha Wolf.

He stops, hyper-still, aware that he has invaded potentially hostile territory. At her invitation, perhaps, but she is queen here, and he is low and packless and not at his best. She goes still too, and for an instant he can almost see her Wolf: smaller than him, leaner, and yet in no way weaker. Sharper in tooth, and perhaps cleverer in claw. An equal; he inclines his head in acknowledgement of this so that her Wolf will feel no slight. A corner of her mouth quirks, and he realizes she's been sizing him up as well. Her slow, respectful nod soothes _his_ Wolf, and then they may at last be man and woman again.

"It is convenient, is it not, having a wild Witch in the family?" Cullen asks. Though he's never before heard of a Witch being able to conceal something so fundamental to a person's being as beast-hood and alpha-hood. Carver's twin must be as exceptional as he is.

"Very," Hawke replies. She shrugs a little, relaxing tensed muscles. "But Bethany's asleep, and I didn't feel like putting on the enchanted amulet my manservant made for me -- and really, I'm getting tired of hiding. Aren't you?"

Cullen shakes his head. "If you're referring to my current out-of-favor status with Meredith -- "

"I'm not." She gestures toward the other chair. Cullen hesitates, then they sit in plush chairs facing one another, in front of the fire. Hawke smiles, crossing her legs; Cullen keeps his expression still and sits squarely. "I meant that I hear troubling things of the Gallows and its Wolves as a whole, but I've also heard that you are the proof the pack isn't wholly corrupt yet. The leader the pack needs, perhaps, rather than the one it has."

Cullen shifts, uncomfortable. "I do as the Maker bids me."

"Yes. The Maker, and not Meredith." She leans forward, steepling her fingers and balancing her elbows on her knees. "An alpha without conscience or propriety is no alpha at all. Wouldn't you agree?"

Cullen lowers his chin, and does not answer. He might have turned against Meredith, but that is no reason to malign her. Everyone knows she's mad. It need not be said.

Hawke looks amused. "Propriety."

He dislikes being on the defensive. "Is it not also proper to announce oneself to the local leader upon entering a foreign pack's territory?"

"When she's known to send assassins after any alpha who doesn't show throat? Do I look like a fool?"

Cullen flinches. " _Assassins_? She would not." Would she? It is an unconscionable breach of tradition. Humans might hire professionals, but beasts do their own killing.

Hawke laughs; it has an edge. "Yes, assassins. It's what she had to do before you came along to be a convenient repository for the pack's animus. She can bear no more herself, after all." She shrugs. "And here I come, with no money -- at the time -- and no pack to help me protect my family? I repeat: do I look like a fool?"

Cullen tilts his head to concede the point. "Why, then, reveal yourself to me?"

At this, she sighs and sits back, considering him with a decidedly resigned look. "Because my little brother likes you. And that supersedes all my posturing."

Cullen's belly clenches. He tries not to react and fails, flexing his hands on the chair's plush arms. "You, ah... You grant your blessing, then, that I might court him?"

She laughs. " _Court_ him? You've met my brother. Does he strike you as the sort of man to spend overmuch time on a decision? Or the sort who _needs_ the blessing of his ostensible guardian, to act on his desires? He has been pestering me to contact you since your encounter on the beach. 'That one, that one, he's not a wanker and I like the look of him, sodding that one, what's taking so bloody long?'"

Cullen ducks his gaze, unable to resist a smile. "His strength and decisiveness will be an asset to any pack."

She snorts, fiercely unladylike. "How diplomatic! You haven't had to live with him. You'll learn." But her smile fades. "I can't give my brother what he needs, Alpha-Captain. He isn't happy here in Kirkwall, and I don't blame him. With me, he'll always have to hide. You, though, have a pack, if you can only wrest it from Meredith. With you, he can be what he's meant to be."

Then. Everything inside Cullen that is alpha settles, taut and ready. He pushes to his feet, unable to think of anything but Carver -- but he tries. Honor demands it. "I will be worthy of him. I swear it."

"See that you are." Then Marian utters a soft sigh of exapseration and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Also. Carver said, and I quote, 'If he comes here, don't blather at him for long; send him on up so he can get started on _treasuring_ me.'"

Cullen blinks, and then he stares at her, appalled; she grimaces and nods.

But. Such a _magnificent_ omega, his mighty Carver, who knows what he wants and feels no shame for the having of it. And Maker's breath, how Cullen wants him. He has to smile and shut his eyes for a moment against the quiet, reverberating joy of possibility.

The negotiations are done. Hawke suggests, gently but with emphasis, that Cullen refresh himself before approaching Carver, by which she means that he reeks of two days unwashed and a lingering hint of Darktown ambiance. The dwarf leads him to a bathing chamber, complete with an armor rack. He strips down and scrubs with soap scented lightly with forest herbs, which only slightly obscures the maddening scent of Carver all over the place. Carver has sat on this bench, recently, to scrub himself as well. Carver has leaned on this wall while sweaty, more than once. Carver has used the towel in a to-be-washed basket; it takes everything Cullen has not to snatch the towel up to sniff more deeply. He doesn't need to; Carver's scent is working on him already, priming his body and mind for the bonding to come. His skin tingles with incipient tension. _Soon_ , he tells his Wolf, and the Wolf sighs in frustration, but abides.

The dwarf has brought refreshments, too -- small sandwiches and tea and cakes with fruit. Clad in a towel, Cullen makes himself eat even though his appetite is for anything but food. He will likely need his strength.

But then the bathing-chamber door is wrenched open. Carver stands there, clad in nothing but old patched leggings, hair disordered from sleep, eyes wide and wild and angry.

"You're here." His voice is triumphant, but Cullen notes how his hand shakes on the door-sill. "Fucking _smelled_ you."

Yes, Cullen's own scent has had time to waft through the house. And already Carver bends toward him, if he is able to distinguish scents; he edges closer to Wolf with every moment spent in Cullen's presence. Cullen puts down the nut pastry he was eating, and turns to face Carver. Carver's gaze immediately drifts down. Cullen has been hard for an hour. He undoes the towel and lays it aside, standing before Carver naked, in offering. A hard, almost angry look of pure need fills Carver's expression, which is both gratifying and precisely as it should be. Carver is old for an unbonded omega, after all, and his instincts have surely tormented him all this time with the desire to be mounted. But that is the reward; first must come duty. Part of Cullen hungers to simply grab Carver, hold him down, and bite him -- but no. That is Meredith's way, unnecessary and cruel. Has Carver not come here of his own volition? This is an omega who respects the ancient ways, in his own irreverent way. No matter how much Cullen aches and breathes faster and has begun to tremble too, he can but do the same.

"Omega," he says. He keeps his voice low, soothing, warning. "Do you come to serve a pack, and be my companion and helpmeet?"

Carver shudders as if Cullen's voice has wounded him. "Fuck a pack," he snaps. "We can get to that later. I came here for _you_."

Maker bless His children, man and beast alike. Cullen cannot help smiling. He is breathless, his blood high and beating in his ears, his fingertips itching and ready to form claws. He keeps it in, though. Saving it up for his perfect omega. Instead Cullen asks, spreading his hands at his sides, "Then what would you have of me?"

He has lifted his chin, just a little: an invitation and demand. Carver flushes and his eyelids flutter a little, and -- oh. His _scent_ changes, right then and there as Cullen breathes him. It is a fascinating process to observe, some part of Cullen notes. Somewhere in Carver, fresh instincts have come into flower. He can become anything, primed by a compatible alpha. But because _Cullen_ is the alpha, and Cullen is Wolf, now Carver ducks his head, bowing his shoulders just a little to lessen his height. He edges forward, not on his belly but humbling himself nevertheless, and only lifts his head when he is close, to nuzzle at Cullen's chin.

Cullen folds arms around him and tangles fingers in his hair and yanks his head back to bare the long column of his throat. He has shifted, partially, unable to control himself anymore; his fangs feel sharp and heavy against his own lips. He presses his face against Carver's neck, inhaling his scent directly from the source, and he feels the hard, rapid beat of blood against his lips. "S-say it," he growls against this skin. It takes everything he has to speak, to wait, to remain in some measure a man, despite the rising, roiling beastly instinct. "My control, I cannot contain, I _need_ you, say the words, I must hear -- "

Carver's hands scrabble at Cullen's back, nails raking skin. His scent reeks of mounting-eagerness and bonding pheromones and pure ferocity. "Fucking _have_ me already," Carver snarls, and Cullen's human mind shuts down.

So he buries his fangs in the flesh of Carver's trapezius, up to the gums. Carver only grunts at the bite, though it surely hurts. He shudders more, however, as the magic of transformation begins to ripple through him, and then his knees buckle. Cullen releases the bite, gathering Carver close as the omega goes deadweight -- and shuddering himself, as a sensation sweeps through him which is no less profound, if not as dramatic. Carver's shape grows blurry, his body reformatting itself to the pattern of Wolf that Cullen has imposed upon it, _becoming other_ as he is meant to. Cullen moans softly and licks his bloody teeth, his thoughts growing blurry as the blood triggers the reformatting of his mind; it changes, flexes, to accommodate a new, permanent presence. Becoming whole, at last, where Cullen has never previously known himself incomplete.

When it passes, he knows only one thought. Carver is semiconscious while the magic reworks him, but that is no matter. He is Cullen's. Cullen hefts him over one shoulder, grabs the bottle of massage oil, and carts Carver down the hall to the room that smells most heavily of his scent. It is a good den, with a door that closes and locks. There Cullen tosses him facedown onto the bed, drags his hips to the edge, strips off his leggings, and crouches to lap at Carver's nether-hole with his tongue. Carver groans -- perhaps with pleasure, or perhaps he is still in the grip of the transformative magic; it doesn't matter. When the knot of him has loosened, Cullen works in three oiled fingers to make certain he is ready for hard use. He is not a monster, however much the beast might be rampant within him in the moment. He means to be a good alpha to Carver, and that means taking care of him in this most tender place.

And then he kicks Carver's legs apart and at last, _at last_ , mounts his omega. Carver twitches and whimpers and pulls away a little when Cullen grinds his way in; Cullen yanks back his hips and grips his shoulder to keep his arse where Cullen wants it. He is uninterested in Carver's pleasure for the moment. He thinks of nothing, feels nothing, but the need to ease himself, maddening and terrible after so many days of unfulfilled wanting. Because of this, the first coupling is frenzied, and Cullen shudders and spills after only a few moments of desperately rutting in and out -- but the release helps a little. In the aftermath he can gasp for breath and think enough to palm more oil so that he can annoint them both before the urge overtakes him again. Carver groans blearily; does he even know what Cullen is doing to him? It does not matter. When the echoes of the second orgasm fade, the need returns more quickly and this time he hardly stops at all, just withdraws and rolls Carver over onto his back and ruts against his half-awake cock until white light blots out his vision and he recovers to find his own seed splattered over Carver's belly. The beauty of this -- his omega's smooth skin dotted with droplets of white and sweat -- overwhelms him, and he bends to lave and suckle Carver's cock until it wakes fully, and then until he cries out and grips Cullen's hair and bucks upward. Cullen swallows him down, moaning in sympathetic arousal, and when Carver is done, he wrenches Carver's legs up to rest on his shoulders so that he might ease himself in Carver's body again.

It is the bonding frenzy, some part of Cullen's mind finally acknowledges. Not a thing that happens always during bonding, or even often, or he would have taken precautions -- asking Carver to restrain him, perhaps, or even begging Hawke to fight him in order to vent some of his pent-up need from years unbonded, which is what must have set this off. But it is too late for those measures -- and he is frightened now beneath his lust, because an alpha in frenzy does not stop. An alpha in frenzy _cannot_ stop -- not until his new omega's scent has been so thoroughly adulterated by his own that there is no risk of a rival challenging his claim. It is a dangerous condition for both alpha and omega; alphas have collapsed from exhaustion, and omegas have been traumatized.

But Carver has begun to recover from his change, and -- sweet Maker, how he _moans_ so, even as Cullen takes him and takes him and cannot stop taking him. "Fucking _fuck_ ," he gasps -- oh, oh, and he lifts his hips to meet Cullen's thrusts, he _presents himself_ for easier mounting, and it is glorious. "Oh, fuck, fucking Void, Cull, please, don't you sodding stop, Maker's _cock_ , so fucking good -- oh..."

"I won't," Cullen rants, when he can speak with a human voice. He is on top of Carver even as he says this, having dragged him fully up onto the bed; he grips Carver's shoulders and licks at the healed scar of the bite as he thrusts feverishly. His balls hurt. He has spent on Carver's face, in his hands, all over his skin, between his thighs, and in his arse again and again. Carver _reeks_ of him, and at last something begins to ease inside Cullen. His voice is ragged, blurry with weariness, as he tries to speak. "My love, my Carver, anything for you, I swear I won't stop." And he does not mean to. He hitches Carver's hips higher and reaches beneath him, finding his lovely thick cock rubbing against the sheets. Dearest Maker, it feels exquisite in his fingers, silken and stone; someday Cullen will demand that Carver take him in turn, because submission is a thing of thought and intent and emotion, not mere physicality. He grips Carver now in his oiled fist and Carver _keens_ , straining to meet Cullen and urge him faster. Cullen snarls and grips his hair again to gentle him, pressing his head down until the omega shudders and presents again. Then Cullen fucks him to relief.

It is perfect. It is a madness that can be drawn in only one way. It makes something new of them, which in this moment Cullen is too torn-apart to process. All he knows is that he wants no other lover, ever again. He will tolerate the omega yielding to no other. They are bound, and perfect together, and he will never again be satisfied with less than perfection. And by the time dawn's light creeps into the room through the shutters, Cullen knows Carver for _his_ , and is at last satisfied. He falls beside Carver, entangled in him, lost in him, and knows no more for hours.

#

The dwarves bring refreshments, which is good. After Cullen falls into an exhausted slumber, Carver tends him throughout the day, washing his sore parts and feeding him water and small bites of food when he can coax Cullen awake for long enough. Otherwise Cullen sleeps deeply, in Carver's arms.

In the early hours of evening on the second day, he finally feels recovered enough to function. There, in the quiet of Carver's room, Cullen coaches him through his first shift to Wolf. It's right, natural, and though Carver was not born to beasthood, he lets Cullen's Wolf call to his -- and then he is a sleek and powerful creature with sharply-outlined buff-and-black markings and bright blue eyes which glow only a little brighter when he flares the power in them. At once, improper wretch that he is, he romps away from Cullen and rolls and prances, delighting in his four legs. Cullen, more stoic in his own Wolf shape, stands guard.

Oh, but then. Carver comes to him, hunching, belly on the ground. His tail wags; this is play for him. He still thinks it a foolish bit of posturing. Yet he performs it nevertheless, licking at Cullen's muzzle and nuzzling him, and something settles within Cullen in response. He reminds his omega of propriety by closing teeth gently over the bridge of his nose. Carver hunches at once -- and shifts, maddeningly, though no born-Wolf would ever do so in the midst of a beast ritual. He sprawls on the ground before Cullen, naked, spreading his arms to emphasize that he is unarmed, lifting his chin in challenge and invitation, and -- oh. Well, then.

Cullen shifts back to man-form above him, then slowly lowers himself to meet that unspoken challenge. They are both too raw for the usual sort of mounting, but Cullen has a mouth, and he uses it to put Carver in his place with judiciously-applied licks and biting until Carver finally groans, "Mercy, fuck, you're a bloody monster, enough," which will do as a submissive gesture.

They bathe, and rest more, and eat, and learn one another. For three days, Cullen keeps his omega sequestered, tending him and being tended, letting the bond grow strong and true.

#

But. All is not well in Kirkwall. And on the third day, Cullen finds himself sitting on the windowsill gazing at the crescent moon, while Carver slumbers in the bed behind him.

He has squandered his days, he feels, with loyalty to Meredith that she has not earned. Worse, by his failure, he has allowed the pack to suffer -- and the whole Kirkwall territory, by extension. Witches have been persecuted and ill-treated, poverty runs rampant, and the territory has no true leaders, with all its alphas dead or in hiding. Everyone suffers for Meredith's obsessions and madness. That is not something an alpha should participate in. Not an alpha of any beast-lineage, not in any territory.

"And it cannot be permitted to go on," he says to Hawke, as he paces restlessly back and forth before her chair. "I thought to flee and grow stronger and return, but... no. I can delay this choice no longer."

They are in the study. It is the small hours of morning, and Cullen is dressed in freshly-laundered clothing and polished armor courtesy of Hawke's servants. Hawke is in loungewear, but she was not asleep when Cullen came downstairs. Cullen rather suspects she was waiting for him.

"I don't disagree," she says. "But you can't face her alone. I've never seen an alpha swallow so much animus and still function. She _uses_ the madness, somehow, to grow stronger. A true monster."

Cullen shakes his head. "I must face her, nevertheless." Then he stops, bowing his head, because the next words hurt. "Carver -- I, you must -- Please take care of my omega."

And then, because the omega in question snorts indelicately from where he apparently has been lounging in the door-sill, Cullen turns in surprise. "Fuck that," Carver says. He is armored, too, much to Cullen's shock, in fine-made stuff with a red steel breastplate -- marked with a hawk -- and sleek, patterned chain. It is oddly cuffed on the arms to show off his rather impressive biceps; belatedly Cullen recalls Carver's more humble traveling-through-Darktown armor, and realizes this is just a higher-quality version of same. Carver is adjusting the straps on one of the gauntlets as he strides forth. "Let's go kill her. Sister, stop wasting time."

And then Hawke, as Cullen stands there gawping at Carver, grows annoyed. "I was trying to talk him into it, you fool. You're going to ruin it."

Bodahn comes in, with Sandal in tow, between them carrying Hawke's armor and weapons, which he sets down on a nearby bench. "Will you be wanting a bite before you head out to kill the Commander, serrahs Hawke and Wolf? I've some pasties and things ready to go."

Maker. They have been _planning_ this. Cullen closes his mouth and glares at Hawke. "Are you mad? I cannot -- "

"Oh, is he being stubborn?" This comes from Bethany, who strolls into the study from its other door; she too is fully armored, and carrying her staff. She throws Cullen a pitying look as he stares at her and thinks, _You, too? A Witch?_ "You poor, poor man. You really didn't know what you were doing, throwing in with this family, did you?"

Hawke gets up, putting hands on her hips. "Every conversation between alphas is political, I've _told_ you that. I didn't want him to think I was trying to take over Kirkwall, or -- "

"Thought you alphas weren't the sorts to yammer away when you could just kill something and be done?" Carver rolls his eyes. "Come _on_ , Sister, Maker take you, I want this over with."

At last Cullen finds his tongue, because it finally occurs to him that his omega is _wearing armor and a greatsword_ , which very likely means that _he intends to fight_. "Carver, no."

"Hey, Culls." Carver comes over and leans in to shamelessly bump Cullen's chin with his nose in greeting. Bethany giggles; Hawke coughs uncomfortably and looks away. Cullen is torn between blushing and shock at the realization that Carver has completely ignored his command. "Sleep good? Gonna help you kill Meredith."

_"What?"_

But Hawke is nodding, though she does so while holding the bridge of her nose and sighing in exasperation. "It _was_ always the plan, presuming you and Carver got on well."

Cullen bristles at once. "You intended -- this -- " He cannot splutter properly; Carver is nuzzling at his neck, making a pleased sound at the way Cullen's scent is permeated with his own. Blushing, Cullen gently pushes him aside. Carver sighs in disappointment. "You _meant_ to challenge Meredith? That is why you... Carver... This has all been some scheme?"

She rolls her eyes. "No. I told you: Carver wanted you. It's just that _because_ he wanted you, I've been forced to build a scheme _around_ the situation."

"Oh, for sod's sake, Sister," Carver says, stretching his arms above his head. As he does so, a purpled bite-mark on the underside of one bicep becomes very visible. Hawke grimaces. Carver notices, follows her gaze, and then grins at the mark; with a hint of pride, he settles his arms atop his head, continuing to display it. Bethany chokes on a laugh, while Cullen wonders if his face will ever stop being red. "You said the territory wasn't a safe place for a mated alpha-omega pair, so we've got to make it safe. I _agree_. You do, too, don't you?" This last is directed at Cullen.

"I," Cullen begins, but then he frowns at Hawke. He does not want to trust her. She is a packless Wolf, and a proven deceiver.

Hawke sees this and sighs. "I have no interest in pack leadership, Alpha-Captain. Perhaps that makes me strange as alphas go, but I've always been more interested in my family than country or pack or anything else. But I'm also not overfond of continuing to play pampered human noble when I'm _not_ human -- or particularly noble. Meredith has to go for many reasons, not the least of which is so I can live my bloody life in peace. And since rumor had it that the other alpha in this territory was a good man in a bad situation, _and_ since I had an omega younger brother to dispose of -- "

"Oi! 'Dispose of' my arse." Carver steps in front of Cullen, defensively. "I can _bite_ you now, mind. Go put your damned armor on, I'll handle him."

That gets Cullen's attention. He glares at his omega as Hawke sighs mortally and heads over to the bench. "You will _handle_ me?"

Carver shrugs, unapologetic as he turns. "S'my job now, yeah? Keeping you in good shape, advising you, helping you with alliances and such. Making you a better alpha." Carver shrugs, cheerful in his acceptance of a duty more ancient than the written word, then pats Cullen's breastplate, grinning. "You're pretty sodding good already. But we help you kill Meredith, you get to be better. Yeah?" He pauses, considers. "Can I call her a bitch, if I'm a Wolf, now? I mean -- "

"No," says Bethany. Carver sighs.

Cullen growls sharply and steps up to Carver, lifting his chin and deliberately staring him down. Bethany flinches at the growl; Carver blinks. "What your sisters do is of no consequence to me, but _you_ will go nowhere near Meredith. I forbid it."

He expects some sort of defiance; that is Carver's nature. But Carver must submit in the end, because omegas cannot help doing so, any more than alphas cannot help forming a pack and leading --

\-- except Hawke has no interest in doing so, and if any omega could defy his nature it would be a Hawke --

\-- and then Carver laughs softly, as Cullen expects. He lowers his gaze, though, and Cullen begins to relax; perhaps Carver will see reason? Then Carver puts a hand on Cullen's crotch, as Cullen most definitely did not, does not, and will not ever once in all the years that he has loved the Maker, expect.

His codpiece is what Carver grabs, more specifically, through the fore-drape, but he jiggles it, and it would be a fine testament to Cullen's stamina that his cock responds to an immediate and uncomfortable degree -- if Carver were not doing it in the middle of a room containing his sisters and two servants. Cullen belatedly thinks to grab Carver's wrist, but then Carver steps up to _him_ , leaning against him bonelessly. Automatically Cullen puts an arm around him, unable to resist.

"I'm not bloody hiding anymore," he says to Cullen, his voice low and intent in a way that makes Cullen's breath catch in his throat. He jiggles Cullen's codpiece again. "This is mine; Maker knows you slipped it to me enough. _You're_ bloody mine. Right?" Cullen's Wolf howls in delight, in spite of everything.

Bethany sighs loudly, somewhere beyond Carver. "Perhaps you two should retire to your room again, Carver?"

Carver throws her a glare with eyes that flash bluer with sudden wolfen fury. "Quit looking, then. And I better not catch you eyeballing his arse again. I can _smell_ it now when you start thinking stuff like that, and you're not getting any from _my alpha_ , so get that through your head -- "

"Carver," Cullen chides, and it is at least gratifying that he subsides in response to this. After a last baleful glance at his twin (who rolls her eyes), he focuses on Cullen again.

"Right," Carver mutters, and takes a deep breath. "So, Culls: you want to get rid of Meredith, you're not doing it alone. You get me. You get the whole sodding family, including the dwarves; Sandal's an amazing runemaker. So we'll take care of her, and then you run the pack, and I get to live my life like a normal person. Normal omega, anyway." He leans in and very gently bites Cullen's jaw, just behind the circle beard. Cullen shudders and tries not to inhale, but fails. "And then we fuck every night without being scared that Meredith will send assassins to interrupt. Right?"

Cullen tries to think through the clamor of his inner Wolf, which has decided that now would be a perfectly good time to push his omega down and have his ridiculous mouth, right here in the study. Carver grins and licks his lips, which fuels the craving -- but this is a matter of life and death, so Cullen must make him obey.

He attempts reason. "Carver. You are an _omega_ , she's an alpha. You cannot -- "

Carver jiggles his dick again; Cullen stops talking in consternation. "Wrong, Culls. I'm _your_ omega, now. She can't bond me unless she kills you, and I'll cut her fucking head off if she tries either." He pauses to consider. "Or bite her throat out. Anyway, being with you makes me stronger, too, right? Now I'm not vulnerable to every arsehole alpha who wants to have me. I'm a fucking weapon. I'm _your_ weapon. _She_ needs to be scared of _me_."

That is... not incorrect. Omegas can suppress any beast, after all, even an alpha. And if they must fight only in human form, where Meredith's Wolf size will give her no advantage... Cullen blinks. They have a chance.

It means allowing Carver to face terrible danger. But can Cullen really ask any less of Carver than what he demands of himself? Especially when Carver is so determined. And if they succeed...

Cullen finally yanks Carver's hand off his cod. But he very gently strokes the backs of his gauntleted fingers against Carver's cheek. "I said that I would treasure you," he murmurs, and is gratified when Carver blushes at the words. "The Gallows is not the palace you deserve, but once it is mine, I can at least keep you in a fitting manner."

He is aware that Carver has manipulated him shamelessly. He knows it is a warning: Carver submits, but this makes him in no way weaker, and in fact gives him quite the weapon to use on Cullen -- a weapon that works. But... Cullen finds that he does not mind this so much. A leash can be pulled from both ends, after all, and it pleases him to see Carver duck his head and grin, though he tries to hide the latter. The lovely wretch _likes_ the idea of being kept.

Silks and brocades, Cullen decides. He will dress his omega in silks and brocades, to display his handsome looks best. A jeweled scabbard for his sword, and only the sweetest of fruits to cross his lips, and perhaps myrrh oil for their frequent mountings --

Carver blinks and shivers, and then abruptly he pulls away, redfaced. "Sodding quit that," he mutters.

Cullen catches his hand, pulls gently. "Quit what?"

Carver's resistance is only token. "I don't know. You're just... in my head? Somehow. I know what you want."

Pleased, Cullen cannot do any of the things he truly wants, like bite the back of Carver's neck, because they are in armor. He settles for the gentlest of kisses on Carver's lips. "You conform to me, as nature demands."

"I do a lot more than sodding _conform_ ," Carver retorts, but it is soft. _He_ is soft, in Cullen's hands.

Hawke clears her throat, and both of them suddenly remember they aren't alone, and step apart. "Far be it from me to interrupt your bond-strengthening," she drawls, "but shall we go kill the Alpha Commander now?"

Cullen clears his throat, but then takes a deep breath. Fresh calm settles over him, and he nods. "Yes," he says firmly. "We shall."

#

The Gallows is fully turned out when Cullen strides up from the dock with the Hawkes in tow. The beta Wolves of the pack growl and pace restlessly, some in human shape and some in wolf shape and some hovering in-between, which is always a dangerously unstable state. Cullen sees at once that there is too much red in their eyes. Without Cullen to take it, and with Meredith doubtless feeding their fear and anger, the whole pack teeters closer to all-consuming group madness. They will slaughter every Witch in the Gallows, then -- and after that, swarm forth to consume Kirkwall whole.

Cullen stops just within the gates and looks at them. Stalwart Agatha, old Emeric, noble Thrask; he cannot believe they want this. He eyes each of them in turn, and wills them to believe his words. "We can return to what we should be," he says. It is soft, but he makes sure his voice carries; they hear. "Do you not wish, again, to be protectors -- not jailors? Warriors, not monsters?"

Keran, one of the younger wolves, shifts back to human; there is longing in his face, but also fear. "A lot of us do want that, ser," he says to Cullen. "But ser -- You haven't seen her. In the past few days, since you left, she's been worse than ever. I don't think -- "

Hawke flinches and growls. Half the pack reacts in the same instant, yipping and whining and cringing away -- and then Cullen, too, senses her coming. Meredith.

She strolls through the main gate in Wolf form, and Maker, what has she been _doing_? She is even bigger than when Cullen last saw, and she _glows_ red, saturated with so much animus that it wisps off her like vapor. Her eyes are dark, blazing evening suns; her claws click on the flagstones, each as long as a dagger.

"Oh, Maker," Bethany whispers, behind Cullen; her voice is low and horrified. "She's killed the Witches. That's murder in her aura; she's killed _all_ of them."

Cullen stares at her, then back at Meredith. It cannot be true. Wolves are supposed to _guard_ Witches. But if Meredith indeed did so... then she would reek with power, as she does now.

She stops before them, however, and shifts to womanform. It takes an effort. Cullen can see how slow the change is, and how she struggles to retain her mind through the magic. In her human shape she is little better -- smaller, but her skin is crazed with cracks, and those baleful red eyes of hers continue to glow. The power is remaking her into something other than a Wolf, but she is no omega; the process of transformation is also killing her.

But she speaks. "And now we see the truth of it." Her gaze shifts to Carver, who has stepped up to Cullen's shoulder. Her lip curls in contempt; Cullen is grimly satisfied when Carver bares his teeth back in silent defiance. She ignores him and glowers at Cullen again. "'What benefits the leader benefits the pack,' you said. Did you not?"

Cullen tilts his head in acknowledgement of the riposte. "Until the leader abrogates her responsibilities. Then the pack requires a new leader."

Her lips draw back from her teeth so slowly that Cullen thinks she isn't aware of it. "You? An alpha who seeks help from cowards?" She eyes Hawke, and Cullen does not mistake the murderous hostility in her gaze. "You lack the strength to take the leadership from me."

"The fuck are we waiting for, then?" Carver snarls, drawing his sword. Cullen puts a hand on his sword-hilt as well, but lifts his free hand to quell Carver. Carver reluctantly steps back.

"Alpha-Commander, stand down." It is her last chance, but he owes it to her. She led Kirkwall well, once upon a time. "This need not end in blood."

"This would always have ended in blood," she snarls. And then she comes for them.

It is a nightmare battle. Meredith is beyond corrupt, and her power curls forth to infect the very stones of the Gallows, which rattle and creak and groan. The statues of Old Tevinter rise at her command; it is like nothing Cullen has ever seen. The pack flees, wisely, though an unwise few remain -- all of them raising swords against Meredith, alongside Cullen and the Hawkes. Keran and Thrask, fighting back to back. Agatha, laying waste. In a lightning-flash from the lowering sky above, he glimpses Samson, wielding a chipped sword and wearing rusted armor, nevertheless throwing himself into the fray. And did they think Meredith would be easier to fight in human form? Her sword blurs; her strikes make Cullen's arms ache every time he blocks. She snaps at him once, trying to lunge for his throat over their crossed swords, feral even with blunt human teeth. He throws her off, and prays to the Maker before engaging her again.

But then Hawke takes her hamstring, and Carver's sword-tip slices through the tendons at the back of her right hand. She falters, but bares her teeth and raises her sword again anyway, clumsily -- and that is when Cullen shifts and lunges and rips out her throat.

Even then, as her blood spills, she does not fall. Sagging to her knees, she shudders as the red light of her spreads over her limbs even as they stiffen --

\-- and then that light leaps into Cullen, arcing from her bloody throat to his mouth and down into him. It forces him back to man-shape, still on all fours, and he cries out with a man's mouth as the bitter, awful flood of terror and bloodlust and -- oh, Maker, just Meredith's hatred alone is --

"Too much!" He manages the words, just, as he sags and collapses beneath the weight of Meredith's madness. "It is -- t-too much, I cannot -- "

Hands, familiar and welcome, cup Cullen's face and pull him up to sit on his knees. "No, it sodding isn't," Carver snaps.

And then the clean, sweet wash of his omega power obliterates all of Meredith's foulness at once. There is nothing left in Cullen but Carver, rock-solid and warm and bolstering-bright.

So it is done. Carver coaxes Cullen to his feet, then, and Cullen faces his victorious allies. The pack has crept back to marvel at him and stare at the hate-twisted statue of herself that Meredith has become.

And then, one by one, the pack members sink to one knee, or lower themselves to their furry bellies. Cullen extends his hands above them, shutting his eyes as the connections of instinct and magic are forged. He is theirs; they become part of him. Carver keeps a hand on his shoulder the whole while, and there are shudders and whimpers all around as the wave of Cullen's strength touches them, along with cleansing omega magic. Thus is the pack made healthy and whole, at last.

And thus does Cullen turn to his lover and take his hand.

"I offer you the protection of a strong pack," he says softly. "Will you accept, and rule at my side?"

Carver rolls his eyes, but he is blushing. "Guess I could do that. Provided my sisters have your leave to live as they please in the city?"

"Of course, within the law." But Cullen wants nothing more of formality, now. He draws Carver's hands up, kissing the backs of his fingers. "I did not think I would love you so well, so soon."

Carver shrugs, offering a half-smile and sidling closer, head turned aside to bare an inch of his long neck. Cullen growls softly, pleased by this blatant flirtation. "Yeah, wasn't expecting that, either. Nice, though, isn't it?"

Cullen leans in to nibble that offered neck in gentle affection, shutting his eyes in relief and release and desire. "Yes. It very much is."

Then he takes his omega's hand and turns to face his pack, and sets to work making Kirkwall whole once more.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Dragon's Lair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12549284) by [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess)




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